Cardruhn
by harmoniedusoir
Summary: "I've been told the Sload have no word for 'adventure'. The closest equivalent would be 'tragic disaster'." Three distant relatives in an ancient family are pulled into an expansive, convoluted web that will shake their lives to the A story of death, family, tradition, politics, magic, thieves, and ancestral tombs.
1. Raynila

_"I've been told the Sload have no word for 'adventure'. The closest equivalent would be 'tragic disaster'." Three distant relatives in an ancient family are pulled into an expansive, convoluted web that will shake their lives to the core. A story of death, family, tradition, politics, magic, thieves, and ancestral tombs._

_**Chapter 1: Raynila**_

**The departed spirits of the Dunmeri, and perhaps those of all races, persist after death_ - Ancestors and the Dunmer_**

Before she awoke, Raynila Aryon was aware of two things. The first was an overwhelming sense of cold, the kind of cold she hadn't felt since she'd forgotten her furs and pulled look-out last Frostfall, on one of the coldest nights of the year. She'd nearly lost her fingers that night, as the month had more than lived up to its name. That was the same night she'd resolved to finally learn the art of Restoration.

The second, and perhaps more literally pressing, was the feel of the hard ground against her face and body. Not the tightly packed earth or tunnelled stone, as she was used to (and some nights had to be incredibly used to, if she and Varon argued and he kicked her out of bed). No, this was smoother, even the fine layer of dust and grit felt almost comforting in comparison to what she had put up with in the past years.

Then, groggily lifting her cheek from the floor and shaking the cramp from her limbs, Raynila realized one more thing.

She had no idea where she was.

She jumped up suddenly, ignoring the creak in her muscles and looked round wildly.

The room, at least she guessed it might be a room, was completely dark. Her meagre night vision refused to reveal her location to her. She backed up slowly, her heart thumping and her breath tearing ragged holes in her throat. Then with a smack, she hit something firm and unyielding.

Shaking hands felt the surface uncertainly. It was the same as the floor, smooth, slightly gritty. Sandstone. _Breathe_. A wall. So a room, definitely. She gulped several mouthfuls of stale air, until she felt her hands stop shaking. It was not outside air, with its fresh, cool, or sometimes ashy taste, but the un-living, dusty air of a long forgotten place.

The world around her was shifting grey, the kind of blackness one finds on waking from a nightmare in the deadness of night. But, if she squinted, she was sure she could make out an expanse that was slightly less black than the rest of the void, directly opposite her. Another wall. _Yes, a room. Breathe_.

Raynila realised her hands had stopped shaking. Slowly, the panic ebbed away, to be replaced a more subtle fear and uncertainty. Where was she? She had to _see_. She had light potions in her bag… and that was when her now steady hands, tracing the contours of her robe, discovered that her bag was gone.

Shaking hands became wild again as they ran all over her body, searching for the strap. But it was useless. She should have realized the absence of its distinctive weight against her left hip. Was it by the floor, near where she had woken up?

She inched slowly forward, then could take the suspense no longer and dropped painfully to her knees, hands flying across the floor. But she found no guarhide satchel.

Raynila, grasped her head in her hands and screamed silently to herself in frustration. If this was some prank of Varon's… So maybe she shouldn't have added the shavings of scamp skin to his shein, but after so many years of coupling they were always searching for ways to _spice_ things up… or to get one over each other. Sure their relentless pranks drove everyone else in the cave wild, but they had driven each other wild, in the beginning.

It always brought a smile to Raynila's face to remember how they first met, even if their relationship nowadays went between passion and passionate fighting at the drop of a cap.

Up he'd sauntered to the Temple, and he'd leant in the entrance archway in his shiny, foreign armour, just watching her sweep. Then he'd drawled, in that thick Tear accent she'd come to adore until so recently:

"If you don't mind me saying, muthsera, you look bored out of your mind."

She'd leant on the broom, mimicking his posture, and informed him that he must be far more bored, to engage a Temple priestess in conversation. Then she'd turned back to the job, informing him where the real attraction was: Vivec's Ashmask, downstairs, centre of the Temple, on the altar. That's what you've come to see, I suppose.

He'd smiled his roguish smile in response. "Maybe I had. But I think I've just found something far better to look at."

He'd told her later over a drink that she'd given him all he needed to know in her first sentence. Her growing apathy with the Temple. Her _ennui_ (The Bretony word tripped beautifully off his tongue in that south Morrowind accent) with her current life.

So she'd told him everything. How she'd run away from home to train as a priestess to spite her parents. The Telvanni cared little for the Tribunal (in fact they cared little for anything other than themselves). But how, after five years, she'd grown weary of the pious and, above all, boring, lifestyle.

He'd leant back in his chair, one hand hooked casually over the back and the other curled round his goblet of shein, and he'd asked her a question.

"You can do magic right?"

"Some. I've studied the schools of Alteration and Mysticism most. Changing the world and how we perceive it. Hah."

"So you could pick a lock with your mind? Or close a door? Teleport? Make someone believe they were immobile."

"I suppose so." She was Telvanni by birth after all.

Varon Sadralo was a perceptive man. When Vvardenfell had opened itself to colonisation (or, more accurately, the Imperials had declared it fit for settlement) many had come to seek the treasures of the land–its untapped ores and mineral seams, its bounty of kwama mines and fertile fields. Varon had seen another benefit in such a virgin land. So he'd worked through his extensive network of contacts, and found an opportunity. There were those who saw the true potential in living on Vvardenfell, he said, and he was working his way north to join a group of them. It'll be an exciting life… perhaps you'd care to join me?

They'd left that night, her naïve and giggling in the arms of the man she saw as her exotic saviour–the handsome stranger who'd pulled her from a life of drudgery. They'd headed north, to Sargon.

Back in the present, Raynila was cursing her youthful naivety. But, ten years later, was she any less stupid? This time, Varon had gone too far. This wasn't funny. Ancestors curse the man, and his fickle nature! When it had become apparent over the months that opportunities for banditry in the north of Vvardenfell were less plentiful than he'd hoped, he grown sullen and unresponsive. That was when Raynila had responded, the only way she'd known how, the way she'd drawn him to her in the first place–by being playful. And it worked, sometimes. And sometimes, it was the only satisfaction to be had in that cave. Her youth meant the others, all hardened Dunmer unsatisfied with their lot in life, were slow to warm to her. The leader, Nerer Beneran, a bald thug in fancy armour, had been disgusted to learn she had little to no skill in Destructive or Restorative magic.

"What use is this chit of a Dunmer who cannot heal us or use fire in our defence?" he'd snarled upon her arrival.

Her lack of skill in Destruction was most cruel to her now, when she needed a flame the most. Instead, she groped blindly across the floor to the wall, and traced it round, stepping slowly and carefully. Finally, after what seemed like an age, her fingers brushed old wood.

She pressed herself against the door, running desperate hands up and down its length. Upon finding the handle, she turned it, casting a desperate prayer to the Ancestors. It seemed they heard her, for the door slipped open easily.

Now a chink of dim light fell into the room, revealing it to be bare. Sandstone walls, slightly curved in the Velothi style. What was this place?

Raynila opened the door cautiously, wishing she had a weapon, wishing she had _something_ besides her tattered robe.

The dim light was coming from a nearby half-extinguished torch. She abandoned all sense of security, and ran across the corridor pulling it from its iron fitting on the wall. Then she cast it around, sending the room beyond the short hall into sharp relief.

Altars. Urns. Offerings. This was an ancestral tomb.

What was she doing in an ancestral tomb?

Raynila was more curious than annoyed now. This had to be one of Varon's most creative pranks yet. What, did he expect her to think she was dead or something?

She shivered despite the nearby flame, and pulled her cloak closer. She knew the kinds of beings that watched over tombs. It had been a point of pride amongst her family that their tomb was guarded by the most powerful Daedra and flesh animations. She didn't want to be caught in a battle without her magicka potions or her staff. She had to get out, and soon. _Breathe_.

She crept through the corridors; past carefully presented offerings and neatly swept ash pits. This was a particularly well-kept tomb, clearly belonging to a large family, probably both rich and devoted. She had never seen inside an ancestral tomb before; she found the things slightly creepy despite her reverence for the ancestors. But there had been a communal area in the Gnisis Temple for those unable to afford tombs. It had been similar, if the offerings were poorer. Here she could see scrolls and enchanted items–perhaps the dead had been mages in life? And there were neatly folded silken clothes with golden threads. Nobles, perhaps? Her fingers didn't even twitch. She had never been a thief.

She had been expecting to be disturbed by the tomb, but as she went on, trying to find the exit, she found that she was growing calmer. There were worse places to end up as a result of your crotchety partner's stupid prank. The ghostly whispering from the pits seemed almost comforting.

Suddenly, she heard a noise from above, and tensed. She had been wandering for Gods knew how long now. Could she have inadvertently awakened a guardian? But no, those were footsteps of the more earthly kind. Somebody was blundering around an upstairs room of the Temple. She knew two things at once. One–she had to go up. Two–there was now an intruder to deal with.

Raynila's lip curled in disgust as she quickened her pace. True it was just probably some thief, some Imperial dog who had no respect for the culture he'd invaded, but what if it were a necromancer? She'd heard of the filth they got up to in those foreign provinces. Apparently, necromancy was even _legal_ in the Cyrodiil branch of that joke organisation they called a Mages Guild. She hoped she didn't run into them, for their sake. If she did, she would unleash such a barrage of magicka that they body would be tricked into thinking it was dead before it took another step. _Breathe_.

But she was not panicking now, not at least until she went up a long slight of stairs, rounded a corner and saw the thing.

A hulking mass of flesh and protruding splintered bone. The crudest imitation of a mortal figure. But viciously effective, from what she'd heard. Some called them Flesh Atronachs, but her family had known them as Bonewalkers. She backed away, her breath hitching in her throat. But then the creature shuffled round, the bare tendons of its legs glistening in the half light, and it saw her. And it _roared_.

Raynila fought hard to contain the panic this time, but it clawed its way up her throat all the same. She backed away as, the creature advanced slowly. She didn't dare break into a sprint, not yet. Then she tripped on her robe and fell back, and the Bonewalker started to run.

Raynila knew it was now or never. She pulled her magicka from the well inside and began the spell in her minds. She reached out, not with her hands but her thoughts, squirming as they reached the half-raging thing that served as the creature's mind.

She remembered the words of her mother, when she'd taught her the spell, the spell that remained one of Raynila's most effective, the spell she'd cast on Nerer Beneran when he bemoaned her lack of magical skill.

_You have to make them believe it_, she'd said. _Alteration is how we convince everyone that how they perceive the world is wrong. We can even persuade our own bodies that the world is different. The most talented among us can change the world itself. See that dartfly. See how it flits about in the air. That is not possible. It should be far heavier. Tell it is a stone. Make it weigh more than it can comprehend. Bring it to earth. Burden it._

The fly had fallen to the ground as neatly as a raindrop falling from a cloud. The little Raynila had turned to her mother in surprise and wonder, and she had realised that you do not need fire or ice to truly cause harm.

The suggestion was in the creature's mind now, and she swore she could almost smell its rank breath. She held the spell in her hands too, a faintly purple ball of magicka. Alteration always seemed to be purple. Then she released it, and saw it hit the creature square in the chest.

It kept coming.

Raynila closed her eyes. Maybe she was just a stupid girl, a silly Dunmer who kept running to rebel, who kept running to do something new, to hide the fact she couldn't do anything at all. She felt a tear on her cheek as the creature narrowed the distance between them and clenched her fists. No. She would die on a happy thought.

_Back to the spell. Because once she'd shown Varon once. He'd just thrown all of her clothes out into the rain, and she'd cornered him in her undergarments, furious. But he'd just laughed again, in that infuriatingly charming way of his. So she'd thrown the spell at him._

_He looked up at her from the ground._

"_This doesn't seem very fair. How can we have any fun like this?"_

_She'd smiled. And then she'd walked over to him, and straddled his chest._

"_And here I thought you were the one with the imagination."_

Raynila blinked as a breeze passed over her face. The Bonewalker had stepped over her. She was still alive. She got to her elbows in time to hear a horrific scream. It had caught a robed Altmer in the stairwell behind her, and with a simple, brutal movement, snapped his neck.

Raynila got to her feet, a frown creasing her brow. So that was the intruder. But why hadn't the Bonewalker taken care of her too. She was intruding too, wasn't she?

She stepped over the Altmer's body, with barely a shiver. She was used to dead bodies by now.

It seemed like another age had passed as she ascended the steps behind the body. Then years more to traverse the winding corridors, leading ever upwards, passing infinite rooms of urns. Or was it days, or just hours? Her sense of time felt distorted. _Breathe_.

Finally, she reached a door, and there was a rim of sunlight shining where it joined the wall. She squealed in delight and ran forward. Then a plaque by the door caught her eye.

She slowed, eyes flitting between to door and the plaque. Then, curiosity overtook her.

She read it. Then she read it again, her frown deepening. It made no sense.

_Aryon Ancestral Tomb_.

Then the shock hit her and she backed away, tumbling back down the stairs and away from the light. She rolled, painfully, smacking into an altar with an urn resting on top. The urn wobbled, then tumbled, before landing neatly in her lap. As if it had belonged there all along.

She turned it over wearily, reading the name engraved upon it with eyes blurred by tears.

_Raynila Aryon._

And she couldn't breathe.

* * *

**A/N: Massive writer's/editor's block for chapters 11/12 of Heart and Stone prompted me to start this short story idea I've had on the back-burner for a while. Will update with two more chapters I think. Description is a bit naff so I may change it when I've written the whole thing EDITED - description has now changed. Image is an alteration of uesp wiki/ File: MW- place- Aryon_ Ancestral_ Tomb . jpg (without spaces), under the CC Attribution-ShareAlike 2.5 License.**


	2. Fevus

**A/N: Thanks to Em Gris for following, and Ozymandeos for reviewing. To be honest, I don't exactly have the answers to what you were wondering myself. I have a vague plan of where I'm going with this story (probably not meant to admit that) and I'm just seeing where it takes me. Originally I wanted to write a short story, strictly three chapters, but now I'm thinking I might expand it. The original idea now seems a little hollow to me, no more than a character study, but now I think I may be able to take this somewhere fairly original. We'll see. **

**Warning for language.**

* * *

_**Chapter 2: Fevus**_

**A thief is by nature a loner. He trusts no one and is trusted by few - _Hiding With the Shadow_**

The jaunty sounds of the lute floated out over the arena pit and Fevus Aryon nodded his head in time with the tune as his long fingers found the notes and plucked them out, one by one.

Below him, down in the pit, some poor s'wit had been charged with hauling out the mauled corpses of the slaves. Fevus was glad his role kept him off the rota for that particular little duty. Besides, the other Dunmer always enjoyed a song or two after the battles, something they could chug sujamma to, something that reminded them of the spectacle they'd just witnessed.

"_Oh, it's another day done, another battle won/Now we'll drink till we're warm and we'll drink till the sun/We'll drink till it's dark, we'll drink till we're cold/We'll all gather round and sing songs of old"_

The song was almost laughable in its simplicity, but he doubted the others even noticed, so high they were in clouds of drink. He'd stolen it from a travelling Nordic bard. Drinking, and songs about drinking, seemed to be the only things those blond fetchers were good for.

He reached down and took a long drink from his own tankard, before returning to the lute and picking out the opening notes of 'The Witch and her Pet Daedroth'.

There were raucous cheers from the tables overlooking the pit.

"That's more like it, Bard!"

"Now, _there's_ a song!"

Fevus allowed himself a secretive smile, then he started to sing the song in all its bawdy glory. Funny how they would never know just how new the label of 'bard' still felt to him.

Fevus Aryon had called himself many things over the years. 'Acrobat'. 'Mercenary'. 'Adventurer'. And more privately, the less euphemistic 'thief', 'rogue' and 'assassin'. If only the drunken fools in here knew how quickly and silently he could cut their purses and have a knife in their back. But that wasn't something he was planning on ever revealing, or doing. He was settled here, content for the first time in months. The ancestors were smiling upon him again.

Fevus had come to Rotheran a month ago, after a long period of dissatisfaction in life and down on his luck after jobs with both the Thieves and Fighters Guilds had gone sour. It had been a rough act to juggle anyway. The Tong would keep sticking their oar in the middle, and besides, the other members had always been ever so slightly surprised that a Telvanni would willingly join their ranks. In truth he found outlanders rather more tolerable than his House brethren. Well, _most_ outlanders.

Yes, although he cared little for books, robes and magic, and although he had left Port Telvannis decades ago in search of more earthly delights; Fevus did share one opinion with his estranged family: his views on the cats and lizards.

Quite frankly, he just didn't see the use for them. He scorned their pathetic attempts at intelligence. They barely spoke Tamrielic, let alone Dunmeris. They were ill-suited to physical labour, lacking the strength or hardiness of other lesser races like the Orcs. His own family had gone through nearly a slave a year, so weak they had been. But Llaren Terano, for all his drunken blustering, had finally found them a use. Buying slaves too worn and weary for anything else, and forcing them to square off against summoned Daedra was a clever idea. Charging others for the privilege of watching the weekly fights was genius. With the weekly entertainment, and the fact they were now distilling their own sujamma, Fevus mused, all they needed was a few women and this place would be heaven on Nirn.

Llaren stood before him now, a vaguely annoyed look crossing his thick features.

"A problem, sera?" Fevus asked, laying his lute down carefully.

"Yeah." The mer was caressing that damn sword again, some ugly blue-glass thing he'd claimed on a recent raid. "I want you to play less of that bawdy stuff. The men are getting restless, and Farandas and Velas still aren't back with the next shipment. Lord Bal should soon provide… but for now stick to the drinking songs."

"Ancestors willing," Fevus said, and began a reprise of the first song.

"_Oh, it's another day done, another battle won…_"

Of course, the mer would be a Molag Bal worshipper. But it didn't bother Fevus, not when the Daedra Lord had so clearly favoured his follower. The sujamma was beginning to settle pleasantly in his stomach as he sang. Yes, life was good now. Perhaps he would stay here a while, and chase away the memories of the events that had brought him here…

* * *

It had been a cave. It always seemed to be a cave. Fevus hated the damn things. Claustrophobic hellholes. But, as always, the problem of fat, shiny gold coins had lured him in, and ancestors be damned if he wasn't going to see the contract through. He needed to.

He scouted ahead of Rhudir, slipping silently in and out of the shadows. The Redguard was a solid fighter and a worthwhile companion, but she was about as stealthy as an Ogrim in a redware shop.

The first Dunmer never saw Fevus coming. He was leaning against the cave wall, picking at threads on his shirt when Fevus jammed the dagger crudely into his skull. The dead mer slumped onto the floor as Rhudir caught up, breathing heavily.

"Why did you kill him?" she asked, leaning against the wall herself. "He isn't Nerer Beneran. We have a description, and the bounty is for him and him alone."

Fevus just shrugged, retrieving his dagger and wiping it on the mer's patched shirt. "The ancestors seem to have finally smiled upon my blade, friend. I would be a fool to waste such luck. You want the gold for this job?"

"Well, yes–"

"Then follow me and keep quiet."

_He has a certain quiet, sadistic glee in killing_, Rhudir thought, as she traced the Dark Elf's steps in the dark. _He tries to hide it, but maybe it's the Telvanni in him._ _He could run from it, but it will dog him everywhere, an overbearing parent that refuses to quit._ She didn't quite trust the Elf not to stab her in the back, just to chase his ambitious desires.

Fevus cut through Beneran's guards like a knife through scrib jelly, albeit a knife that hid in the shadows and struck when the scrib jelly was least expecting it.

The caves were deep, twisting and maze-like but soon the pair felt they must be nearing the end.

That's when everything started to go wrong.

They reached a wide open cavern, a sort of living space with beds, a firepit, makeshift shelving and seating. There were no shadows here, no places to hide. And the two Dunmer sitting talking by the fire noticed them immediately.

The older one, a man in battered steel armour jumped up first, his eyes widening as they flicked rapidly between Fevus's bloodied blade and Rhudir's war-axe.

"Intruders!" he shouted, drawing his own long sword. Rhudir ran forward to engage him, leaving Fevus squaring off against the second mer, a woman. She looked younger and more uncertain than the man, her messy red plaits conveying a kind of youthful weariness. But she was wearing a robe and carrying a staff and that meant only one thing.

Mage.

He ducked as she sent a jolt of magicka flying where his head had been. He didn't care to know what kind of spell it was, probably wouldn't have been able to tell anyway. All he knew was he had to get to her.

He dodged again, throwing himself behind a clumsily constructed bookcase, feeling the impact of the magicka shaking the shelves. Then he kicked it down, sprinting towards her, taking her by surprise.

She was in his arms, the blade pressed against her throat, her staff falling to the ground when he hesitated. There was something about her that made him stop.

She struggled against him, pleading in Dunmeris: "_Lo! Lo! Ani lo'hritsa met, sera! _I don't want to die, sera! _Bev'asha_! Please!"

Her cries annoyed him. He was not accustomed to being spoken to in the Old Tongue. His associates had long since switched to the Common Tongue as a badge of modernity. What did she hope to achieve? Then he shook himself mentally. _What was he doing?_

"Silence, whore, and accept your fate!" he hissed, and pressed the knife against her throat and slit it firmly. She slumped in his arms, glassy eyed.

But still he felt strange, in spite of his bravado. Something about the girl spoke to him. He had never felt… remorse... over a killing before.

"Fevus! What are you doing?" Rhudir yelled, the body of the armoured Dunmer dismembered at her feet.

Another Dunmer appeared, looking down on the scene from the wooden balcony above. Rhudir saw just how massive he was, how powerful he looked, and understood why two of them had been sent on the contract.

"Nerer Beneran!" she yelled, brandishing her axe. "There is a price on your head!"

Nerer Beneran turned and fled. Rhudir started to give chase.

"Come on, Fevus!"

But Fevus was transfixed by the body of the girl before him, her blood slowly staining the dirt floor. He reached down, and took her staff. It was a bluntly-crafted thing, probably no use for slinging spells and more for cracking skulls. Her turned it over between his hands, feeling the carved wooden rod. There was a name scratched there. The name of the dead girl.

_Raynila Aryon_.

The staff fell from his hands in shock. _Kin_. He'd killed kin. He did not know the girl from Boethiah, but she shared his name. How would the ancestors look upon him now?

He licked his lips nervously. Rhudir was long gone. Surely she'd take care of the contract. And he'd take care of this. Make peace.

He scooped the girl into his arms. Her head lolled, and he had to tear his eyes from the death-wound. He knew where to go. He fled, not knowing the strength of Nerer Beneran, not caring, and left Rhudir to her fate.

* * *

The Tomb. He'd been there only once, upon his arrival in Vvardenfell. He understood that his family had a presence on the island as much as the mainland, and he'd wanted to pray to the ancestors for luck and guidance. Now he stood before the entrance once more.

Raynila's body was now no more than dust between his hands. He'd purchased a fire scroll for the cremation, and a clay urn for the ashes. He'd written the name himself, in shaky Daedric lettering.

He understood now. The fouling of the Thieves Guild job, his inability to settle–they had both been signs, and this was the final one. The ancestors weren't smiling upon him at all. He had to make amends.

He pushed open the door to the Tomb.

"_Sh'llaalam_," he whispered to the dark emptiness, the Old Tongue strange on his lips. _Greetings_. The corridors down the stairs were filled with altars with and rows and rows of urns resting atop. He felt as if they were watching him. Judging him. Finding an open side room, he located an empty plinth. He placed the urn on it, and sunk to his knees in prayer.

"Great ancestors and Daedra. Family, Azurah, Boethiah, Mephala, forgive me my transgressions. Take your child and bring her into oneness with the ancestors. Ease her passing, and allow her to have rest. _Sh'llaalam u'kol tuv._" _Peace and be well._

He rose shakily to his feet, and left the silent sleeping place with its watchful urns and whispering ashes.

Outside, he breathed long and hard into the wind. He needed a change of profession. Something harmless. But what? He'd always had a love of music…

And as he walked back in the direction of Ghostgate, a refrain from an old song came to mind, something he'd heard from a travelling Nord bard as a child.

"_Another day done, another battle won… though the dead may be buried, life must go on_."

* * *

Fevus drew himself back from the uneasy contemplation of the past to notice that all the Dunmer of Rotheran were slumped happily over their tables, sujamma spilling to the floor. He felt increasingly light headed himself.

Leaning to put his flute on the floor, a powerful force suddenly knocked him backwards.

There was a flash of white light; so bright it was as if Aetherius' sun itself was in the room with them.

There were screams, horrible screams, then silence. Fevus bunched his hands over his ears, screwing up his eyes against the torturous light. Then, it faded.

He opened one eye, then the other, and hesitantly looked up. A blue-robed mage was standing there, Dunmer, youngish, with foppish hair and a handsome face that probably had all the female mer swooning. How he hated mages.

"Don't worry," the mage said in Dunmeris. "_Hem lo'met_. They are not dead. I have merely… incapacitated them briefly. Fevus Aryon?"

Fevus could only nod dumbly.

The man smiled and extended a hand towards him. "Come with me. The battle is not yet won."

* * *

**A/N: The 'Dunmeris' I have the characters speaking in this chapter is very, very, very loosely based on Hebrew (UPDATED TO ADD BECAUSE I FORGOT: I chose Hebrew because of the Assyrian/Babylonian influence in the naming of many caves/shrines/Ashlanders in Morrowind. I figured that Ashlanderi would probably correspond to something like Assyrian Neo-Aramaic, and Dunmeris, as the more widely used language, would be like Hebrew, obviously with all the purely fictional words too. This is just my interpretation, and I hope it does not cause anyone any offence. I just think it's interesting to speculate on the potential real-world cultural influences on the cultures in Tamriel).**

**I do not speak any Hebrew, I based the words on transliterations of some Hebrew words as I found them in various linguistic resources and altered some. For example, 'lo' is 'no', and I'm pretty sure everyone knows 'shalom' (which I interpreted to get 'sh'llaalam', 'Llaalam' being a male Dunmer name in Morrowind that I thought could have a literal meaning) has many meanings including 'hello', 'goodbye' and 'peace'. Anyway, every phrase is 'translated' directly after it appears, I really only included the words to add colour. I'd love to know if anyone knows of a Dunmeris conlang! (Other than that, I'll use the words on the UESP if I need them).**


	3. Aryon

**A/N: I'm sorry this took so long to get an update! I've been beta-ing, and then consistently woking on chapter 10-14 of Heart and Stone, editing over and over again and trying to get over some writer's block. I think I'm finally happy with those chapters, and I'm halfway through chapter 15 now. So, I came back to this story. Many thanks to ClaireDuhBear for favouriting and reviewing in the mean time (if any readers here are looking for something new - go read Life of a Thief. Just do it.) And don't forget to let me know what you think, should the fancy take you!**

* * *

**_Chapter 3: Aryon_ **

**According to Telvanni principles, the powerful define the standards of virtue - _Great Houses of Morrowind_**

_N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!_

The strange mashing of consonants and vowels almost seemed to mar the page with their harsh black lines. Yet there was an odd dissonant beauty in the text. If only he could figure out what it meant.

Master Aryon of Tel Vos hunched over the book as he read, sucking his quill and following the text with a slim finger.

_Ahkstas so novajxletero (oix jhemile) so Ranetauw. Ricevas gxin pagintaj membrauw kaj aliaj individuauw, kiujn iamaniere tusxas so raneta aktivado._

Then he sighed and leant back into the wooden bag of his chair, stretching his legs under the desk. Only a few sentences, and the text was just as indecipherable as one of Mistress Therana's rants on spiders. Of course, he hadn't expected working with the book would be easy, hadn't expect to decode the Sload language into a translation at first sight… but even getting his hands on a copy of the rare text had been a challenge, although to find one in the Sload language using the Daedric script was such a stroke of luck that he had wondered if Nocturnal wasn't watching over his endeavour. He still felt for the young Retainer who'd ended up dealing with the necromancer in Mawia. He doubted she would feel up to tackling House business for some time… Perhaps he should have gone himself.

He rocked the chair forwards, its legs slamming back into the rug with a muffled _thump_. Enough introspection for now. He was Aryon, Master of House Telvanni and he'd be damned if he wouldn't give it his best shot. It wasn't as if he was working on Jel or some such outlandish script.

He leant over the book once more.

_En gxi aperas informauw unuavice pro so lokauw so cxiumonataj kunvenauw, sed nature ankoix pro aliaj aktuasoj aktivecauw so societo._

There had to be something in those clumps of the letters that so often ended words, the ayem, yoodt and web. Perhaps a verb, or a plural? Aryon dipped his quill in the ink and wrote some quick notes in a graceful hand on a sheaf of parchment. _Ayem + Yoodt + Web = Plural/Verb. Seht?_ And there, was that the Cyrodiilic word 'nature'? Surely a coincidence? Though both languages had descended from the Ehlnofey, he couldn't dismiss it out of hand…

Then, as his hand descended once more to the parchment, he felt the Call. It was like a subtle yet keen prod in his mind, strengthened and channelled by the focusing crystals in his tower. His Mouth was contacting him. Aryon sat back once more and closed his eyes, and then he opened the conduit in his mind. He sat, glowing faintly with the white aura of Mysticism magic, and waited for Galos to Speak.

_Master Aryon_

The Voice was quick, efficient, as if the speaker wanted to be done with the message as soon as possible. Aryon always marvelled at the spell's ability to render cadence and tone, just as if the person were speaking into his ear. And with Galos, the voice was almost always pressing and urgent, no matter the subject. He suspected the mer was ill-suited to the role of Mouth, and that he regretted the ambition that had forced aside his studies.

_I hear you Galos_

Aryon Replied.

_It is concerning the disturbance in your family's ancestral tomb Master Aryon Upon attempting to contact Sauriil I have discovered that he perished Some guardian of the tomb no doubt An oversight_

Aryon frowned as the flow of the message filled his mind without pause. The delivery was instantaneous, and left him little time to muse over a response. And he needed time to muse, for apparently the disturbance in his ancestral tomb was an issue that refused to die.

It had been two months ago that a travelling spellsword had heard the cries coming from inside as she journeyed to Ghostgate. Knowing better to disturb the ancestors of other mer, the Dunmer had reported the issue to the Temple. The Temple had contacted Master Aryon, as the oldest living 'Aryon' on the island. For Aryon was both his surname and his name, his whole being. On becoming a councillor, he had accepted the tradition of dropping his first name and using only his last. It was just about the only tradition he held to.

Not knowing the nature of the disturbance, Aryon had personally met with Sauriil, a young yet almost forcefully ambitious Altmer Oathman who had previously completed chores in the House. He had asked the Altmer to determine the nature of the disturbance, stressing the importance of respect for his distant family's remains. Sauriil had almost jumped at the chance to prove himself to a House Master. And now he was dead.

Aryon rubbed the bridge of his nose.

_Are you sure on how Do we know the nature of the disturbance_

There was silence in response. His ancestral tomb… He had visited the place only a few times. The ashes of his most direct ancestors were in the tomb near Velothis Haven. The Vvardenfell family were a different line; cousins perhaps, and certainly not involved in House politics, as were those in Port Telvanis, and in Greenheights, in Heinim Wall… He understood there were even Aryons as far south as Tear and Sotha Sil. Perhaps there were even Aryons in other provinces now. Theirs was an ancient and, above all, widespread family. But, he knew his two hundred and seven years of age made him the eldest of Vvardenfell's particular branch of the Aryon tree and thus responsible for the tomb's upkeep. Of course, cremations and offerings were dealt with by closer family members, and sweeping, maintaining the braziers and conjuring guardians were menial tasks given to specially hired workmen and women. But there had never been a disturbance before…

Aryon rubbed his face again, and sighed. Galos would be waiting for a decision and he had one ready.

_Thank you Galos Leave this with me I will deal with it directly_

He allowed his magicka to flow from his mind back into his reserves, bringing the Speech to an end. Then he stood, carefully closing his copy of _N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis! _His deciphering of the Sload language could wait. For now, he had a journey to prepare for.

* * *

In truth Aryon was almost excited about this project. It was a chance, a chance to show the other councillors what he was made of–if the disturbance turned out to be dangerous. He doubted they would care, but maybe it would shake their foundations, force them to sit up and take a little more notice of the newcomer. And if it was mundane, it couldn't hurt his reputation with those he wished to win as allies. Nothing quite like the dutiful Dunmer, caring for his ancestral tomb. Besides, it had been a long time since he'd gone out in the wilderness, felt the thrill of a journey. The last thing he wanted was to grow creaky in his tower, set down roots, like a stone aspiring to nothing greater than becoming even more worn and cragged. The other Telvanni seemed content to focus their interests on acquiring slaves, chasing after priceless artefacts or furthering their own academic pursuits. So traditionalist, so _isolationist_. Aryon, he was a rolling stone, a tree–reaching and seeing further than any of them.

That was why he'd had his tower made the way it was. It wasn't yet finished, but he had high hopes for the final design. He still retained a fondness for the mushroom towers he'd grown up in–that slight musty scent of homegrown wood and fungus too nostalgic to ever quit entirely–but the Imperial stonework was a sign of his modernity, his willingness to accept the occupation and work with the Empire. New ideas, new alliances, new ways. Aryon knew Morrowind wasn't such a Province of two minds–more a province of one thousand and counting. A great mess of an identity disorder that quarrelled and made war against itself as much as it fought the outsiders. Great Houses and Ashlanders and now Imperials, and was it any wonder the Legions hadn't left yet? But Aryon, he saw what they had gained in having them around as much as other Dunmer saw only the loss. And Aryon was always one to twist a situation to his own gain, his own interests.

Besides, the tower was just perfect for said interests. Tel Vos's stonework buildings allowed for the installation of a comprehensive Dwemer museum, perhaps the only one in Morrowind–to Aryon's great pride. He had an excellent library, and his facilities had attracted many wizards to set up shop and provide enchanting and alchemical services to travellers. The proximity to the Zainab's grazing lands meant he hoped trade might soon be established with them. His power and influence was only growing daily, and now he knew the next step was to find allies. Letters to Baladas and his old master, Divayth, waiting to be sent. He couldn't count on the other councillors to see his point of views–Dratha hated him by default, Therana had retreated into her mind years ago, Neloth was the craggiest rock of all, and Gothren… well, he suspected Gothren might just have to retire soon. He'd heard whispers on the wind, whispers that often blew closer when one took residence near an Ashlander camp, whispers of a young Dunmer who'd walked into the northern Urshilaku a nobody and walked out a Legend. It wasn't quite there yet in his mind, but he was clever, and Aryon knew he would soon have the makings of a Plan. Perhaps his best yet. But for now…

He retrieved a hide pack from a chest, and laid it on his bed. Then he crossed to his nearby potion shelves and selected all of his recent brews: potions to restore his magicka reserves, to heal his wounds and grant him endurance and speed for the trip. Of course, there was always his magicka–like any Telvanni he'd been trained in it practically from birth–but he also knew the foibles of arrogance. For that reason, he would also be wearing a light cuirass under his ocean-blue robe.

He took a few enchanted daggers, and held his staff fondly in the light of the candles for a moment. Like all good wizards' staves, it amplified his magicka and focused it, allowing him to sling spells like an archer fires arrows. And it could also crack a few skulls, if needed. He guessed. Then in went a few dried provisions, a water-skin and a tightly packed bedroll.

Finally, he retrieved his enchanted gloves from their lockbox beneath his bed. Purple silken gloves that just stopped just shy of his wrists, far more powerful than their worn state suggested. He'd enchanted them long go in his youth, and given them affectionate names: Helper and Dominator. He tended to keep those names to himself. But he could always use a little help, exert a little domination…

Aryon left instructions with reliable Turedus, though he expected the Imperial wouldn't need them. He had always run things in his own efficient way, a way that fortunately often coincided with Aryon's wishes. It was almost a relief to leave business in the man's broad and capable hands for a few days. A few days for his whirring mind to move away from trade deals, political manoeuvring, difficult translations, Gothren's idle nature… his feet almost ached to tread the open Ashlands. Carefully, he slipped the pack over his shoulders, brushed his dark hair under a headwrap, took his staff in hand, and left.

* * *

The tomb was a little southeast of Ghostgate–ordinarily, a three day walk from Tel Vos at least, but Aryon held no business with 'ordinarily'. No sooner had he floated down from his tower, than the cool liquid of potions to fortify his speed and endurance found his throat. He almost retched at the taste of boiled hide, but managed to keep his bittergreen tea down as he started jogging southwards through the long, waving grass.

It was a cool Morning Star dawn, the sun just winking over the horizon, not yet gifting the land with its meagre yellow light. The frost on the grass was barely melted, though it turned to dew as it brushed his robe. Aryon jogged onwards, his breath puffing forth into little white clouds that dispersed to find their likeness in the lightening sky, and the fading winter mist on the ground. When he reached the mountains, he would fly, but for now he ignored the spreading dampness on his clothes and moved ever on.

He passed the outskirts of the Zainab's yurts in two hours, instead of a day, and paused to eat some salty scrib jerky and drink from his waterskin. A few Zainab herders and traders, rising with the sun, paused to look at him as he sat on a boulder standing in the grass opposite their camp. He raised a hand, and a few Ashlanders waved back. Perhaps they recognised him, perhaps they were just extending that familiar Vvardenfell hospitality–you don't bother us, and we won't bother you. Aryon finished his small meal and stretched his legs to move on. He didn't think he would stop in on Kaushad this time. The mer's ego was big enough, and could only grow larger with every diplomatic meeting. Besides, the fortifications of old Falensarano were starting to peek through the mist as it melted away. They called him onwards.

He made camp that night in a small hollow, the other side of the mountains, having taken care of the nearby flock of cliff racers with a few well-placed fireballs. Molag Mar was a scarred land; great rifts of lava had dragged their burning fingers through the rock, leaving harsh lines and deep foyada. Here and there, lakes of the stuff refused to harden away. Tree were bare, ash-torn, and the ground was cracked, hard and hostile. Aryon knew this was what the Imperials thought of when they heard 'Vvardenfell', and when he slept he dreamt of the luscious Grazelands, the tall grass saluting the stoneflower-blue sky.

The next morning, he reached the tomb.

It was, he supposed, much like any other family tomb in Morrowind from the outside. Even on the inside, an outlander would likely not mark the size as a sign of anything other than an old or large family. They would miss the Daedric lettering on the door; miss the family symbols on the banners. They wouldn't stop to read the names on the urns. For all his willingness to work with the Empire, Aryon's fists curled hard round his staff as he approached the tomb. May their Gods help them if he discovered them inside.

But the tomb was silent as he turned the latch. Using his staff, he sent a great, sparkling ball of light to the curving sandstone ceiling where it clung, like a diamond dug into a patch of soil. A little way in, he found the corpse of Sauriil, half-rotted away. Maggots had already come to make their home in his eyes.

Aryon crouched and started preparation to incinerate him. Half out of disgust, half out of respect. Sauriil had been a good mer, if lacking in forethought, and neither he nor Aryon's extended family deserved to have the corpse resting in this place. He noted, as he worked, that the tomb was still as silent as a Frostfall night. Perhaps whatever had disturbed the traveller and killed Saurill had moved on. He finished up the spell, allowing controlled flame to lick its way along the mer's golden skin and burgundy robe, then realised he was being watched.

A young Dunmer stepped from the shadows. She was almost entirely translucent, but he could still make out hints of colour, hints of the mer she had been. Messy red plaits hanging on either side of her face, the colour of fire fern at sunset. A patched brown robe that failed to conceal how thin she was–had been. She was holding an urn between her hands–no holding was incorrect. Spirits couldn't hold anything. Instead, she was levitating it, no doubt with the small residue of magicka all ghosts seemed to be left with. Aryon straightened up, and pulled his headwrap loose. How interesting.

"_Ahta shlom card?_ You are kin?" she asked, to his surprise in the Old Tongue, her voice all at once loud and quiet, near and far away. She had the voice of one who was hopelessly afraid and determined to beat it into bravery. The urn trembled between her pale hands. She couldn't have been more than thirty.

"My name is Aryon," he said, replying in the Common Tongue, merely to see if she spoke it.

"Aryon," she said, tasting the name. "Then you must be kin. I am Raynila Aryon. Or I _was_. I'm dead, aren't I?" Apparently the Dunmeris had been an affectation of her habitat, and she was entirely comfortable with Tamrielic.

"Yes." His tone was practical, not kindly or sarcastic–there was no need, he had spoken with ghosts before and found that neither seemed particularly appreciated. True to form, the spirit of Raynila Aryon managed a wan smile.

"I thought so. I've been remembering it, in little bits. It's… very strange." The urn wobbled once more between her hands. She had come close enough that he could read the name on it in the flickering of the flames and the brightness of his spell. Red and brilliant white shining on _Raynila Aryon_.

He stepped towards her, examined her from all angles. She watched him, her expression firm, even petulant, but the hint of who she was once flickered in her eyes, and it was afraid.

"I'm here because I heard reports of a disturbance in this tomb," Aryon said finally. "Was that anything to do with you?"

Ghosts were imprints, imprints with unfinished business. He told himself this as the little spark in her see-through eyes followed the movement of his lips.

"Yes, I think it must have been," she said. "At first, there was the Altmer. But then there was Something Else. So I tried to get help. I called for days. Or maybe I called and the Altmer came, then there was the bad thing, the Something Else. Or the bad thing, the calling and the Altmer. It's very mixed up in, in, in, my _head…."_

She sounded on the verge of tears, if ghosts could cry. Aryon fought the urge to study her. How many months had she walked the halls, crying for help from someone, anyone?

"What kind of bad thing?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, gaining control of her echoing voice. 'That is why I called for help. I used to follow the Tribunal, but I never believed. I never prayed. I think I want to pray now."

Whatever was in this tomb, it had to be bad to trouble a ghost, to prevent her from leaving to join her ancestors. It had to be… Something. Aryon looked around, at wasn't the tomb perhaps unnaturally dark? Shouldn't those braziers be lit? He shivered slightly. This would bear investigation, certainly.

Raynila was watching him. She hadn't taken her eyes from him. "Are you a mage?" she asked. "You must be Telvanni?"

"Of a sort. Do you think this is a magical problem?"

"It might be. But that's no good. I'm a mage–I _was_ a mage. We need someone else."

The growing dark seemed to shift around them. Aryon, Aryon of Tel Vos and Aryon of the Telvanni who was so fond of progress and ambition and who had everything coming under his control from the design of his tower, to the texts he acquired to study, to the tiniest little detail in his overarching plots–this Aryon found himself becoming afraid.

"Who?" he asked, finding strength in the question. He had to get out of this tomb.

"Find the one who killed me, if he still lives. I know his look, but not his name. Dunmer, perhaps in-between our ages. Dark hair, boiled armour, gold rings in the ears. He could be Tong but I sensed there was something more independent about him. He came to where I was for a bounty, but I was not the target. I have done some bad things, but he had not come to kill me. Yet he did. I do not know his name, but there was something about him… I know he has to be the one to come here. Please find him."

This was strange, far stranger than he had expected. A ghost of a mer, bound to this place, unable to leave and afraid to stay… What else was haunting this place? Aryon forgot all about deeds of compassion and deeds of ambition. In fact, he forgot all about his House, his politics, his plans. He was entirely focused on the shade of Raynila in front of him, her red hair barely there, and her bravery even less.

"It shall be done," he said. "But, where should I start to look?"

Raynila held her urn close to herself, and whispered into the dark:

"I died in the caves known as Sargon. Start there."

* * *

**A/N: Phew, that ended up being quite a bit longer than I expected! Possibly because Aryon is just one of my most favourite characters, and part of the original inspiration for this story. Here's hoping I did him justice! I'm still figuring out bits here and there, so let me know if there are any glaring plot holes or inconsistencies!**


	4. Nerer

**A/N: Hello! Here's another update. Sorry they're more halting on this story, they come as and when I manage to get writing done really. But wow, I was not expecting the response the last chapter got! Thanks so much - to krikanalo, Ozymandeos, Arya May, Em Gris and Kazaera! (EDITED TO ADD: and thanks to eregwen for faving and following! This might seem like a strange thing to have added, but it's important to me to thank and recognise those who give their support!) Glad to see there's still some Aryon love out there. And about them all being related - nope it's not bad if you didn't realise! The connections between people sharing the same surname was part of the inspiration for the story, aside from that it's a fun background thing that may or may not end up being plot relevant. Anyway, onto today's chapter...**

* * *

**_Chapter 4: Nerer_ **

**Victory in battle is only the least kind of victory. Victory without battle is the acme of skill - _Zurin Arctus_**

Why do bandits come to caves?

For Nerer Beneran, outlander and highwayman extraordinaire, the answer was obvious. Vvardenfell was a whole bush of ripe comberries, begging to be picked. Untapped Vvardenfell, land of black ebony and bright glass, bursting at the seams with riches to be claimed. In fact, forget the bush of comberries–Vvardenfell was a whole plantation, and Nerer Beneran had intended to be the plantation master.

Except now all his workers were dead. Dalmil, dead. Gavesu, dead. Llero and Milynea, dead. Varvasa, dead. That poncy twit Varon and his weak girlfriend Raynila, dead. Dead, dead, dead, _dead_.

"Gargh!"

Nerer's temper got the better of him and he kicked out with a cry of inarticulate rage at his water bucket. The acrid urine splashed against the stone wall of the cave and he glared at it unhappily. Because what was it, other than a reminder of his newfound solitude? There was no one else here to see it.

He hadn't been sitting bone idle–ever since the unexpected attack a few months back he'd been trying to find new blood willing to join his efforts. Ship raids and mine plunders were hard to carry out with one man, after all. He had tried, initially, to rob a ship, but sneaking just wasn't his style. So the crew had realised he was there alone and first they had laughed, then they had advanced on him with weapons. It was a sad day when cargo ship hands got the better of Nerer Beneran, so he had resolved to find new lackeys to help him in his particular line of business. But the old contacts seemed to have all dried up. No water left in those streams now. His reputation had caught up with him, and it was busy building dams.

At first, when he had made the decision to go into his line of work, a few contacts in the Cammona Tong had found him some other individuals interested in his proposition. Not all were in it from necessity or a desire for riches, as he was. Some had something to prove against the Empire. Nerer disliked the Empire on principal, but he often privately felt that, without them, he never would have been able to get so far.

He had lived at his family's estate in Blacklight for years, and had never given much thought to the ash-scarred island across the water–though his balcony had given an impressive view of the volcano. He hadn't much cared about the Legion occupation of that same island either. _Let them try_, he'd laughed privately while his Redoran family had wrung their hands and prayed to the saints for guidance. But then, the Imperials had opened the island up for settlers. Of course, this simply was a move to try and attract other n'wah–true Dunmer could come and go in their own province as they pleased. But it caught Nerer's attention, for once. Maybe there was something on the island worth taking.

So he'd stolen his father's ebony cuirass and made for Ald'ruhn. They were happy to accept him there, and gave him a room in the council house. They even over-looked minor transgressions, when Nerer's hands couldn't help themselves and helped him to other's coinpurses. He suspected the famed 'Beneran' name carried him far, and protected him farther. But one night, he'd got into a disagreement with an Imperial oaf from a nearby fort. He'd killed the man and then his name could protect him no longer. The Redorans tended to be funny about honour like that.

A wanted murderer, Nerer had fled north. The coastal islands (and, indeed, the mountains and hills) of Vvardenfell were riddled with caves, and he chose one of these as a temporary camp. It was only meant to be temporary but after a while, and when more like-minded individuals had found him, he decided to stay. Make a profit from passing ships and nearby mines. Nerer Beneran liked to think of himself as an opportunist–no a businessman. And for several years, business had boomed.

Then it all started to go wrong. The arrival of Varon and that useless Raynila. Varon was a personal recommendation; Nerer had not been expecting a girlfriend in the bargain. He was horrified to learn she could not even perform basic destructive or restorative spells. What kind of Dunmer was she? Then she had cast a powerful alteration spell on him, one that had brought him to his knees.

"You can stay," he'd choked out.

In the present, Nerer Beneran stalked over to his bed and grabbed a loaf of bread, chewing it unhappily. That had been his mistake, to let the girl stay. She and Varon had been nothing but irritating–two teen mer in love, though he knew for a fact that Raynila was in her thirties and Varon was at least twice that. That had probably been the problem, in the end. The bounty hunters had come, and those two had been the last defence. They had failed. Still, one of the bounty hunters had fled and he had personally taken care of the other, but they had left him with nothing. Nothing.

No doubt this bounty was keeping people away, but also this Blight. He had heard only whispers about it, that and something stupid called spirit sickness. No, soul sickness, that was it. Superstitious mumbo jumbo. But if the workers had left the plantation, then the crops were also diseased, for it sounded serious. Nerer had even heard, through the remaining channels of communication, that the island was now in quarantine. Nobody in, nobody out. He felt like a man tied to the mast of a sinking ship.

He finished the dry loaf of bread. Soon he would have to move on. His supplies were running low. But he was loath to leave this place that had become his home, and he didn't know where he would go. Maybe he would find a way to sneak off the island. Find another province. Take his business to the Imperials directly, perhaps.

Then, he heard the distinctive sound of footsteps on stone. An intruder. The beginnings of a grim smile only widened. Good. Nerer Beneran had been looking for someone to take his frustrations out on.

* * *

The Redguard's head on a spike was a gruesome touch. Aryon stared at it for a moment, feeling only pity for what had once been the head of a probably quite beautiful woman. Underneath, painted in what he supposed was blood, were the words: 'Bounty hunters, this is you're warning!'

Outlaws. No class _or _spelling ability.

Still, Raynila's directions had been excellent, and that was something to be thankful for, especially given how long the trek had been. He still wondered about the young dead woman waiting in the ancestral tomb. This was not a clear-cut situation at all. Normally, from his experience, ghosts were souls who lingered on Nirn because they had been wronged somehow. Normally it was murder; sometimes it was something as simple as a last request, a broken promise. A man, waiting in the meeting spot for his lover to appear. A general, waiting to receive the final report from his fallen soldiers. With Raynila he supposed it could be vengeance, this desire to find the man who'd killed her. She had obviously been some sort of bandit, that Aryon could work out, though she didn't seem the type. But what she had said about the… Something Else. The bad thing. It implied she wanted not the death of this mysterious murder, but his help. And that, Aryon noted with a thrill, was beyond him.

He was walking through the dim passages now, his hand trailing a ball of light behind him. Dried blood splatted the rough walls and floors here and there, but someone had apparently moved the bodies. Eventually, he reached an open cavern, where a large fire was burning. Aryon noticed the piles of armour and clothing round the fire. _So that's where the bodies went_. But no clues as to the other bounty hunter's identity yet, if there had been just two of them. Then, he heard a noise and a grunt of frustration from above. Aryon allowed himself a sigh of relief. So there was someone left here after all. With a swoop of his left hand, three elemental atronachs walked into life beside their master.

* * *

Nerer was brandishing his broadsword with a sneer, about to leave his quarters when the other mer walked into view.

He was not tall, though he walked as if he was. Dressed in an ocean-blue robe with gold trimmings and with a staff in his gloved hand, it was clear he was a mage. Nerer's eyes tracked over the robe, the gloves and the many rings on the Dunmer's fingers and in his ears, and he smiled, doing quick sums in his mind. He raised his sword…

"I wouldn't, if I was you," the mer said mildly. "I have you surrounded."

"Surround–?"

But before Nerer could finish the question, the mer clapped his hands and there was a blur of red, white and blue. When Nerer blinked again, three atronachs stood round him. A small, lithe flaming one, a larger roughly hewn one that sent puffs of ice crystals into the air, and an even larger, smoking one, that looked like the belch of a storm.

Nerer considered them for a moment, and the smug-looking young mer in front of him. Then he attacked.

Then he screamed. He hadn't even finished raising his sword before his arms were seized and he was thrown back against the wall. The jug on a nearby shelf wobbled, and smashed on the ground. One arm was burning hot, as if he had shoved it into the fire burning in the cave below. The other was deathly cold, growing number by the second. He tried to move and found he could not. Two of the atronachs were holding him back. The third, the embodiment of the storm, stood by its master as he moved forward to prise Nerer's sword from his frozen fingers.

"There," the mage said. "You are not going to rob me, and I am not here to fight with you–ah?"

"Nchow!" Nerer spat.

"I highly doubt that's your name. Still, perhaps… _ahta medabehr Tamrielic? _Do you speak Tamrielic?"

"There's no need for growl at me in the old tongue," Nerer said, the pain on his arms growing. "Nerer Beneran is my name."

"Well, Ser Beneran, what is it they say? Ah yes. We can do this this easy way, where you answer all of my questions. Or we can do this the hard way, where my helpers continue to hold you, and maybe you taste a little of my domination too? What will it be?"

_Why does he look like he's enjoying this?_ Nerer thought dully. "Who are you?" he asked aloud.

"Aha!" The man's smile grew wider. "I am Aryon, of Tel Vos!... No? I must work on my reputation. You, sera, are dealing with a Telvanni wizard."

_A Telvanni? Those nutjobs from eastern Morrowind? _Nerer decided to play along for the moment. He didn't want to be turned into a scrib or anything.

"Easy way," he muttered.

"Good." Aryon clapped his hands again and the atronachs disappeared. Nerer glanced at his armour. Frost crystals were melting on his right arm, and the ebony on his left had melted into the shape of the small handprint.

"This is my best armour," he muttered.

"Oh, I highly doubt it belongs to you," Aryon said, folding his arms. "Now, I have some questions for you. I gather from your exterior decorating that you were recently visited by some bounty hunters?"

At this an alarm sounded in Nerer's mind. "Are you a bounty hunter too?" he asked, his eyes searching desperately for his sword.

Aryon seemed to sense what he was looking for. "I hope you're not thinking of making a mistake," he said. "And do keep up, I said I'm not here to fight with you. We can add 'or to kill you' to that, if it makes you happier. Now, bounty hunters?"

Nerer Beneran didn't take his eyes from his sword. "Yes," he said.

"How many of them were there?"

"Just two." He could duck and grab it in one movement, and then that mage would be laughing on the other side of his face…

"Describe them for me."

"I guess you know one was a Redguard. The other was a Dunmer. Dark hair. He left, come to think of it." _And so did Raynila's body… why didn't I think that was strange before?_

"Here, were you related to her?" he asked suddenly. "You have the same name."

Aryon looked puzzled for the smallest of seconds, and Nerer seized his chance.

"Only related in the sense that all old families share common ansces–Ser Beneran, didn't I suggest _not_ to make mistakes?"

The sword clattered away harmlessly, and Nerer Beneran once again found himself pressed against a stone wall. Aryon panted in front of him, and swept his dark fringe from his eyes. His right hand was raised, and the gloved fingers were trembling slightly.

"The hard way then," he said. "I did promise you might taste my domination."

Nerer tried to move from the wall, and found that he couldn't. In fact, every bone and muscle in his body seemed to be telling him they were right where they wanted to be. He tried to argue with them, but found he couldn't even lift a finger. He felt as if he'd suddenly been strung up like a wooden puppet, all strings holding him down. He couldn't even grunt in protest.

"Now, the mer, the bounty hunter. He is still alive. I command you–speak!"

Nerer found his jaw wrenched open and he fought to stop it. Instead his mouth moved mechanically of its own accord, while his eyes turned desperately in their sockets.

"Yes. I killed the woman, but the mer disappeared. I think he left, and took Raynila's body with him. I don't know why. I didn't care at the time."

His mouth shut forcibly, like a trap, and he wanted to rub his aching jaw. But Aryon was not finished.

"Why would bounty hunters come to Sargon, Ser Beneran?"

Again the puppeteer's invisible fingers forced his mouth open and pulled his deepest secrets forth. He wanted to scream, to cry. Never had he felt so helpless.

"I am a wanted man. Wanted for murder. Years ago, I brutally killed a member of the Imperial legion in Ald'ruhn. I fled, and have since been committing acts of piracy and theft here."

It was as if even his inner self was judging him. He could take it no more.

"I don't know who sent them!" And then, with an extraordinary measure of strength: "Please!"

But the spell did not drop. Aryon looked at him gravely. "I'm sorry," he said. 'I know it cannot be pleasant. But you forced my hand–there are circumstances beyond your knowledge, and I needed your corporation. I'm going to leave now then, and only then, I will release you."

Nerer waited. And waited. Even long after the man's footsteps had faded he was still pinned to the wall, a helpless insect on the alchemist's table. He felt he would be doomed to this prison, he would never again feel the control of his own body. The Telvanni wizard had left him here out of spite. There was a warmth at his crotch and he tried to whimper, but his mouth was clamped shut.

Then, finally, achingly, he fell to the ground.

Nerer Beneran, hardened remorseless criminal and murderer, raised his hands to his face and wept.

* * *

Outside the caves, Aryon sighed, and dropped the spell. It hard been hard to keep it over the extended distance, but he trusted the man as far as he could throw him–or even less. He hated what he had done. He was Aryon, Aryon the sympathetic, nice Telvanni. Not Aryon who used methods of cruelty to bully information out of people. But, it had been necessary, had it not? The man had stood between him and his goal. The song and dance act had worked in the end. Besides, Nerer Beneran had doubtlessly stolen from many, and killed too. Still, that didn't help ease Aryon's mind. _Maybe I'm more traditionally Telvanni than I care to admit_.

He took one last look at the Redguard's woman's frozen scream, then gently eased the head from the spike. It had stiffened on the wooden pole, but he managed to work it free. It was no final resting place. He wrapped it in linen, then placed it in his pack. Maybe those in Ald'ruhn would know of kin, would be able to find an appropriate burial place.

_There will be peace and rest for the dead._

* * *

Percius Mercius, an entirely reasonable sort, not only found next of kin for the woman formally known as Rhudir but also found Fevus Aryon's name on their books.

Aryon wasn't much surprised at this point. He no longer believed in coincidence. _There is a reason this involves us all. Kin but not family_.

The Imperial guildmaster even had a hint for where to go next.

"He did come back, as a matter of fact," he said, and scratched his thinning hair. "He said he was leaving the guild, he wanted to get into a new line of work. Last I heard he'd signed up as a bard, and gone to entertain a caravan at Rotheran. That's one of the old Dunmer strongholds."

"I know," Aryon said, and thanked him.

He looked around Ald'ruhn briefly before turning his attention to the north again. It was a pleasant town, if slightly too dusty for his tastes. He found himself missing the sound of the sea, and his mushroom tower. _Soon. Hopefully, this will all be over soon._ He couldn't shake the nasty suspicion that what he was getting involved in was even bigger than he had initially suspected.

Then he sighed, and cast a recall spell. Luckily, he'd left a mark outside of Sargon. From there it was only a short flight over to Shegorad's main island, and the stronghold of Rotheran. Then, he and Fevus Aryon were going to have a little chat.

* * *

**A/N: Bit of a gap-filling chapter, but hopefully you've guessed how it fits in re. what's already happened. Sorry if timeline-screwy stuff is confusing, I kinda thought it would be fun to write, and that sort of thing will be relevant in the next chapter!**


	5. Mephala

**A/N: Finally got this done! I've been chewing over this chapter for a while now, as it's a bit of a pivotal moment. Hopefully everyone enjoys it! Many thanks to krikanalo and Arya May for your reviews! I'm a massive fan of Aryon too, as I think I've probably mentioned, so writing him in a story is a lot of fun. Thanks for the critical advice, which I've taken. A final thanks to birgittesilverbow for faving and following, and to for following. By the way, I've decided to add 'pull-quotes' to the top of each chapter, taken from in game books and dialogue (not limited to Morrowind.) Just a fun thing I thought I'd do. Anyway, onto the chapter!**

**A warning for language.**

* * *

_**Chapter 5: Mephala**_

**From my experience, Daedra are a very mixed lot. It is almost impossible to categorize them as a whole except for their immense power and penchant for extremism - **_**Morian Zenus**_

What was it like to be dead? Raynila Aryon quickly discovered there were worse things.

At first, however, it was an icy punch to the gut, forcing out gasps and wheezes of shock. She had crawled desperately away from that urn, the tears blurring her vision allowing her to will the name into someone else, anyone else.

_It is not me. It cannot be me. I am not dead. My name is Raynila Aryon, I camp in the caves known as Sargon with my partner Varon and I... am... not d-dead..._

Besides, she had opened the door in the first room; she had picked up the urn...

But then, Raynila remembered dully, though she fought against the memory, all ghosts possessed a mild level of telekinetic ability. She had been instructed on this during her ordination into the Temple. All initiates were advised not to be afraid if they ever witnessed such activity around the communal altars.

"It is common to all departed _card_, kin," Mehra Dora had said, her kindly eyes creasing at the corners as she took in the nervous looks of Raynila and her few fellow initiates. "On death, most magicka reserves seem to be transformed into Mysticism, and thus spirits are still able to interact with the physical world. Do not fear the dead. If they are manifesting, they need our help. You should..."

But the voice of the priestess drifted away into dark memory as Raynila curled into a ball on the cold sandstone floor.

_I need help_.

But she had felt, had she not, the old wood of the door, the rush of dank air as the Bonewalker passed over her, and the smooth carved letters on the urn? Just as clearly as she now felt the floor beneath her limbs. Raynila sat up suddenly, and slammed her fists onto the ground, feeling the rough stone bite into her skin. _Real. Real. REAL._

Logic said she was a ghost, but where had logic got her in life? Into a cave of jaded and world-weary bandits, and she supposed by the end she'd started to resemble them. The end... her eyes blinked with tears.

_See I'm crying I can feel that I'm crying I can't be dead._

All annoyance was now fear. She missed Varon, missed the way his lips twitched as he smiled and she missed his stupid jokes. She wished this could have been one of his stupid jokes. _Anything but this. _Was he dead too? She couldn't remember what had happened.

She stared at her hands, as if daring them to turn pale and ghostly. She pulled desperately at her plaits, feeling them, seeing how her hair shone brilliant red in the light of the braziers. Her hair was real; Varon had run his hands through it just yesterday...

Yesterday. And now Raynila found herself wondering just how long she had been in the ancestral tomb. Her memories had seemed to follow a linear progression at first: wake up in room, explore tomb, meet Bonewalker and Altmer, realise dea–discover urn. But now the more she thought about them, the harder they were to visualise. She struggled desperately to hold onto the images, but it was like grasping at smoke as it danced tantalisingly away. Had she been calling for help before she saw the Altmer's body, or since she realised what had happened to her? She gasped aloud, still wringing her plaits. _How long have I been here?_

But there was something else, and it crept over her with a shudder. Something black and clawing, hollow and hypnotic; she felt it crawl through her limbs as if anchoring her to the floor. What was it? Some fresh horror, or a reminder of her situation?

_No, no, no, no, no!_

She ran over to the urn and hurled it with all her force at the nearest wall, arching her back, drawing it over her head, and letting it sail above as an exasperated scream escaped her. But she was not strong enough to shatter the urn. Not anymore. It rolled back towards her feet, the name winking snidely up at her.

_Raynila Aryon_.

_Raynila Aryon, you are dead._

She realised she wasn't breathing.

Raynila screamed until her throat was raw and she lay collapsed on the ground once more, but now she knew that it was all just an illusion of her mind, her mind that still clung desperately to life.

_Life_. "Why am I still here?" she asked, aloud for the first time, and her voice scared her, for it sounded both near and far away.

"Is there still a chance I could be returned to life?"

Hope sprung in her chest like a small warm fire. She racked her mind for all that she knew about ghosts: the residual magicka, the purpose for resting... as guardians, or to demand justice for their murder. She couldn't even remember her murderer, and she retained her own mind, so she had not been bound to the tomb. Maybe, maybe there was a chance... She fell to her knees, clasping her hands.

"Oh, please, please, ancestors, anyone, Azura Mother of the Rose, Mephala Webspinner, Boethiah Queen of Shadows please! I'll do anyth–"

But then she bit her lip, cutting her own speech deadly silent and cursing her impetuous folly. Bargains with the Daedra lords were not idle promises to be thrown to the wind, Good or Bad. They might actually be listening.

But it was too late.

A great wind spun through the hall, as if a great yet invisible winged creature was bearing down upon her. Raynila's plaits were whipped about her face as she struggled to remain upright. Every single brazier was extinguished with a single puff. _No... no! _She sank to the ground and closed her eyes. _What have I done? Which demon have I conjured into existence? _The Telvanni did not, as a general rule, trouble themselves in Daedra worship. The Temple had bred a healthy respect and fear of the Princes, both Good and Bad, into Raynila. She trembled in the dark, and waited.

_**You have a strong voice, mortal, to summon me in your undeath.**_

The voice was male and soft, the accent unplaceable. She wasn't sure if he was speaking aloud, or in in her own head. The words seemed to arrive without the medium of language.

"Who are you?" Raynila asked, not daring to lift her face. She wanted to ask, "which one are you?" How could she be in this situation? Dead (_I'm dead not alive but I still feel and hurt I'm stuck in some half life_) and now conversing with a Daedra.

_**I am Mephala, Lord of the Web.**_

At this Raynila nearly jerked upwards in shock, though she managed to keep her eyes squeezed shut and her head facing the floor.

"Mephala? I... forgive me, but aren't you... I had heard tell that you were, well, female?"

_**We Princes wear our sex as you wear the clothes on your back.**_

The voice sounded almost amused.

_**I am Mephala, Lady of Whispers, Mephala Spinner, Mephala, your Lord of sex, lies, and murder. I come to you in a form you may feel pleasing.**_

At this, Raynila could resist no longer. Besides, her fear had slowly ebbed away the longer she spoke to the Prince. She raised herself slowly from the ground.

Mephala appeared to her as a four-armed Dunmer man, with long, flowing black robes that pooled onto the sandstone floor and bared his chest. Threads like silvery spider-silk hung down his body, trailing between his arms and to the ground. His hair fanned out behind him and his face, his face was Varon's.

Raynila swallowed hard, resisting the urge to reach out. _Be careful when Daedra seek to meddle in the affairs of mortals, for they serve only themselves. _The anonymous warning rang loud in her mind. But oh, she missed Varon, and here some creature was wearing his face; it looked almost natural. She could trick herself into thinking it was him.

"Why do you seek to please me?" she managed.

_**I seek to please you, to help you... There is no great difference. I wish to expedite our interaction. A web is fast weaving, and while I inhabit your Plane I cannot observe every thread. Shall I manifest as female?**_

"N-no," Raynila managed to say. "This is fine."

Varon, she realised with a dull pang, was surely dead. And the Daedric Prince had found his form within her mind. The thought both repulsed and thrilled her.

_**I know why you are as you are. I deal in secrets and mortal affairs, and a great secretive affair is being spun as we speak. But not by me, not this time. A brother of mine is once again making his pacts with mortals. He dares to shield it from me. I wish to uncover the heart of this web, to show him who the true Lord of Secrets is, and you shall be my Champion. And, perhaps the web you can spin yourself shall be an art to observe.**_

He titled his head to one side, not taking his deep crimson eyes from her face.

_**An undead Champion... Perhaps there are things that yet surprise me about the world of mortals. Agree to serve me in this, and I shall give you the secret of your current existence. It is one of many secrets I am privy to. And, if you follow my every command, you will eventually be released from this lonely grey hell. There is no other way. Give me your agreement, mortal.**_

His voice was terrible, yet seductive. When he held out of his many long-fingered hands, Raynila swore she could hear the scuttling of many spiders within the tomb. But, a way to leave this ghostly existence she had endured for ancestors knew how long? The memories stretched out in her mind now, a long, dark nothing.

She hesitated for only the briefest of instants, reaching out and grasping the Daedra's cold hand.

_**You have been lying to yourself, mortal. Your own eyes have been deceiving you. You have walked this tomb for longer than you know, calling for aid. You have also blinded yourself to what darkness lies here. I will now show you.**_

There was a terrible tug in Raynila's head, as if her eyes had been forced to revolve in their sockets. A dull throb started behind her temples.

What, then, is worse than death?

Raynila saw It now, and she felt It. A horrible knowing sensation, like a thousand tiny teeth clothed in shadow, swept over her body and continued through the tomb. The darkness was _throbbing_. The pounding in her head intensified. Dry heaves wracked her body, but there was nothing to release. The tiny teeth swept over her again, searching, probing, _pulling _and gnawing away.

Raynila crawled, shaking and coughing, till her fingers found her urn once more. She noticed how she could see her hands as ghostly now.

The sensation lessened, though the darkness still moved, like a thick oil slick bubbling in the corners of the room.

"What is it?" she managed to gasp out.

_**That is what you shall discover. You, and the companions who shall join you, all your threads are woven together. Now listen carefully, mortal, while I instruct you. You must do exactly as I say, else our pact shall be void and you will be doomed to walk this half life while the dark spell eats away at what little remains of your wasted soul.**_

Raynila shuddered at the horrible whisper. "I will do anything," she said, clutching the urn to her.

_**First I give you this.**_

–_A man–A cave–A dagger–"Silence, whore, and accept your fate!"_

"My death," Raynila whispered, instinctively drawing the urn closer to her.

_**Yes. Hold it close in your mind. Remember that man. A mage will come; you must question if he is kin. Play naïve. Do not speak of me, or the knowledge I have granted you. Tell him of your fears. Appeal to his better nature. He must find the man who killed you. You need one who is not a mage–a thief, a natural killer. He is the one who must help you here.**_

"Ask him if he's kin, find the one who killed me," Raynila muttered, committing the instructions to memory. "Pretend I don't know what I happening and that I never spoke with you. But wait... why am I here at all? Why have I not moved on? There is Something Else in the tomb... Am I cursed?

Mephala folded his many arms.

_**If you are to weave the web yourself, I cannot give you all of the answers, mortal. For now, hold onto that urn. Never let it leave your grasp. It is your final guard against the dark thing in this tomb. I will leave you now, though I may yet whisper in your ear... the mage arrives.**_

He was fading finally. Raynila wanted to plead with him to stay. She didn't know if she could do this. Mages and secrets and dark forces in tombs. Why couldn't she have stayed Raynila Aryon, the girl who rebelled into foolish choices and lost her life in a cave at the hands of a bounty hunter? She was no Champion of Daedra.

Was she?

Because now she felt as if forces she had never dared contemplate were battling a game of wits over her fate, and the fate of family she had never known. _Kin_. The Telvanni.

Raynila Aryon held her urn close to her body, and walked towards the entrance of the tomb. She made a sad small figure against the growing dark, but she held her head high.

_I am Raynila Aryon, and I am dead. I have entered into a pact with the Daedric Prince Mephala as his or her Champion. I will uncover the dark mystery in this tomb of my ancestors. I shall be proud, and clever, ambitious and devious. I shall become the thing I ran from until I died: a Telvanni._

* * *

"_She's _involved now."

The dog sat in the shade of the leafy green tree and scratched its ear, with a plaintive expression. Then it spoke again.

"You're ignoring me. I felt her presence in the mortal plane."

The boy walked along the woodland path with his arms crossed until he was standing under the same tree as the dog. It came up to nearly his waist when it stood up, and it wagged its tail.

The boy was not strictly a child, or even mortal. His appearance was chosen to look youthful, joyous and even a little cheeky, with his bright clothes, long blond hair and the dimples in his cheeks. Except now he wore a frown and here in his own Plane, a long horn in the centre of his forehead.

"Aren't you meant to be impersonating a scamp somewhere in Morrowind?" Clavicus Vile asked his Conscience.

"Yes," the dog said, and barked impatiently. "You're not listening to me again, Clavicus. I said I felt–"

"I heard you."

The boy scuffed the path with a bare toe, his arms still crossed over his chest. Behind him, great rolling hills extended in all directions, dotted with thickets of trees. It was a warm day, the skies were blue and the trees moved softly in the breeze. He was content; the plots were proceeding according to his whims, and he did not want to be bothered by the damn mutt.

"Who then?" he asked. "Azura? I know she's moving petty little things on the island currently, though I didn't think she would game against me. Nocturnal, Meridia, Boethiah? Or maybe you're talking about another "she". Barenziah of the Dunmer, Iszara the Redguard or maybe even Jyllia who was Talara–_who are you talking about, you insufferable pup_?"

The dog flinched at the boy's shout, his ears flattening against his head.

"There's no need to take that tone," he whined. "You know full well I'm talking about Mephala the Webspinner."

"It doesn't matter," Clavicus Vile said with a sly smile. "This time I've struck a deal that will beat out her pitiful web. She may think she stands a chance of opposing me in this, she with her tangled strings, but I have entered a bargain with the mortal. I'm 'no strings attached'. I like the plot he asked for. It's fun. He will not bend to her, not with my power on his side."

"She hasn't gone to him. She's gone to a dead girl. Someone caught in the wrong place at the right time. She–"

"So what? There's another gambler on the game board." Clavicus Vile's frown faded for a bored expression. "I don't care. Go bother your Orcs."

"But it will end badly! People might die!"

"Good." Clavicus Vile was walking back the way he had come, into the forest. "I like it when people die. I'll have his soul either way, and the ones he's sending me besides."

"But–"

"Shut up, Barbas."

* * *

**A/N: Man, Daedra are hard to write. No fun with Dunmeris in this one, I kind of figured that it would be silly to attribute a language to the Daedra's communication. And yeah, I know that Mephala is typically female, but I thought it would be interesting to portray her as male for once, given that, along with Boethiah, she is said to change sex/gender depending on whom she wishes to 'ensnare'.**


End file.
